A Study In Scarlet 2-1/7

Part II, Chapter 1

On the Great Alkali Plain

In the central portion of the great North American Continent
there lies an arid and repulsive desert, which for many a long
year served as a barrier against the advance of civilization. From
the Sierra Nevada to Nebraska, and from the Yellowstone River
in the north to the Colorado upon the south, is a region of
desolation and silence. Nor is Nature always in one mood throughout this grim district. It comprises snow-capped and lofty mountains, and dark and gloomy valleys. There are swift-flowing
rivers which dash through jagged canons; and there are enormous
plains, which in winter are white with snow, and in summer are
gray with the salinealkali dust. They all preserve, however, the
common characteristics of barrenness, inhospitality, and misery.

There are no inhabitants of this land of despair. A band of
Pawnees or of Blackfeet may occasionally traverse it in order to
reach other hunting-grounds, but the hardiest of the braves are
glad to lose sight of those awesome plains, and to find themselves once more upon their prairies. The coyote skulks among
the scrub, the buzzard flaps heavily through the air, and the
clumsy grizzly bear lumbers through the dark ravines, and picks
up such sustenance as it can amongst the rocks. These are the
sole dwellers in the wilderness.

In the whole world there can be no more dreary view than that
from the northern slope of the Sierra Blanco. As far as the eye
can reach stretches the great flat plain-land, all dusted over with
patches of alkali, and intersected by clumps of the dwarfish
chaparral bushes. On the extreme verge of the horizon lie a long
chain of mountain peaks, with their rugged summits flecked with
snow. In this great stretch of country there is no sign of life, nor
of anything appertaining to life. There is no bird in the steel-blue
heaven, no movement upon the dull, gray earth — above all, there
is absolute silence. Listen as one may, there is no shadow of a
sound in all that mighty wilderness; nothing but silence — complete
and heart-subduing silence.

It has been said there is nothing appertaining to life upon the
broad plain. That is hardly true. Looking down from the Sierra
Blanco, one sees a pathway traced out across the desert, which
winds away and is lost in the extreme distance. It is rutted with
wheels and trodden down by the feet of many adventurers. Here
and there there are scattered white objects which glisten in the
sun, and stand out against the dull deposit of alkali. Approach,
and examine them! They are bones: some large and coarse,
others smaller and more delicate. The former have belonged to
oxen, and the latter to men. For fifteen hundred miles one may
trace this ghastly caravan route by these scattered remains of
those who had fallen by the wayside.

Looking down on this very scene, there stood upon the fourth
of May, eighteen hundred and forty-seven, a solitary traveller.
His appearance was such that he might have been the very genius
or demon of the region. An observer would have found it
difficult to say whether he was nearer to forty or to sixty. His
face was lean and haggard, and the brown parchment-like skin
was drawn tightly over the projecting bones; his long, brown hair
and beard were all flecked and dashed with white; his eyes were
sunken in his head, and burned with an unnatural lustre; while
the hand which grasped his rifle was hardly more fleshy than that
of a skeleton. As he stood, he leaned upon his weapon for
support, and yet his tall figure and the massive framework of his
bones suggested a wiry and vigorous constitution. His gaunt
face, however, and his clothes, which hung so baggily over his
shrivelled limbs, proclaimed what it was that gave him that
senile and decrepit appearance. The man was dying — dying from
hunger and from thirst.

He had toiled painfully down the ravine, and on to this little
elevation, in the vain hope of seeing some signs of water. Now
the great salt plain stretched before his eyes, and the distant belt
of savage mountains, without a sign anywhere of plant or tree,
which might indicate the presence of moisture. In all that broad
landscape there was no gleam of hope. North, and east, and west
he looked with wild, questioning eyes, and then he realized that
his wanderings had come to an end, and that there, on that
barren crag, he was about to die. "Why not here, as well as in a
feather bed, twenty years hence?" he muttered, as he seated
himself in the shelter of a boulder.

Before sitting down, he had deposited upon the ground his
useless rifle, and also a large bundle tied up in a gray shawl,
which he had carried slung over his right shoulder. It appeared to
be somewhat too heavy for his strength, for in lowering it, it
came down on the ground with some little violence. Instantly
there broke from the gray parcel a little moaning cry, and from it
there protruded a small, scared face, with very bright brown
eyes, and two little speckled dimpled fists.

"You've hurt me!" said a childish voice, reproachfully.

"Have I, though?" the man answered penitently; "I didn't go
for to do it." As he spoke he unwrapped the gray shawl and
extricated a pretty little girl of about five years of age, whose
dainty shoes and smart pink frock with its little linen apron, all
bespoke a mother's care. The child was pale and wan, but her
healthy arms and legs showed that she had suffered less than her
companion.

"How is it now?" he answered anxiously, for she was still
rubbing the tousy golden curls which covered the back of her
head.

"Kiss it and make it well," she said, with perfect gravity,
showing the injured part up to him. "That's what mother used to
do. Where's mother?"

"Mother's gone. I guess you'll see her before long."

"Gone, eh!" said the little girl. "Funny, she didn't say
good-bye; she most always did if she was just goin' over to
auntie's for tea, and now she's been away three days. Say, it's
awful dry, ain't it? Ain't there no water nor nothing to eat?"

"No, there ain't nothing, dearie. You'll just need to be patient
awhile, and then you'll be all right. Put your head up ag'in me
like that, and then you'll feel bullier. It ain't easy to talk when
your lips is like leather, but I guess I'd best let you know how
the cards lie. What's that you've got?"

"Pretty things! Fine things!" cried the little girl enthusiastically, holding up two glittering fragments of mica. "When we
goes back to home I'll give them to brother Bob."

"You'll see prettier things than them soon," said the man
confidently. "You just wait a bit. I was going to tell you
though — you remember when we left the river?"

"Oh, yes."

"Well, we reckoned we'd strike another river soon, d'ye see.
But there was somethin' wrong; compasses, or map, or somethin',
and it didn't turn up. Water ran out. Just except a little drop for
the likes of you, and — and —"

"And you couldn't wash yourself," interrupted his companion
gravely, staring up at his grimy visage.

"No, nor drink. And Mr. Bender, he was the fust to go, and
then Indian Pete, and then Mrs. McGregor, and then Johnny
Hones, and then, dearie, your mother."

"Then mother's a deader too," cried the little girl, dropping
her face in her pinafore and sobbing bitterly.

"Yes, they all went except you and me. Then I thought there
was some chance of water in this direction, so l heaved you over
my shoulder and we tramped it together. It don't seem as though
we've improved matters. There's an almighty small chance for
us now!"

"Do you mean that we are going to die to?" asked the child,
checking her sobs, and raising her tear-stained face.

"I guess that's about the size of it."

"Why didn't you say so before?" she said, laughing gleefully. "You gave me such a fright. Why, of course, now as long
as we die we'll be with mother again."

"Yes, you will, dearie."

"And you too. I'll tell her how awful good you've been. I'll
bet she meets us at the door of heaven with a big pitcher of
water, and a lot of buckwheat cakes, hot and toasted on both
sides, like Bob and me was fond of. How long will it be first?"

"I don't know — not very long." The man's eyes were fixed
upon the northern horizon. In the blue vault of the heaven there
had appeared three little specks which increased in size every
moment, so rapidly did they approach. They speedily resolved
themselves into three large brown birds, which circled over the
heads of the two wanderers, and then settled upon some rocks
which overlooked them. They were buzzards, the vultures of the
West, whose coming is the forerunner of death.

"Cocks and hens," cried the little girl gleefully, pointing at
their ill-omened forms, and clapping her hands to make them
rise. "Say, did God make this country?"

"Of course He did," said her companion, rather startled by
this unexpected question.

"He made the country down in Illinois, and He made the
Missouri," the little girl continued. "I guess somebody else
made the country in these parts. It's not nearly so well done.
They forgot the water and the trees."

"What would ye think of offering up prayer?" the man asked
diffidently.

"It ain't night yet," she answered.

"It don't matter. It ain't quite regular, but He won't mind
that, you bet. You say over them ones that you used to say every
night in the wagon when we was on the plains."

"Why don't you say some yourself?" the child asked, with
wondering eyes.

"I disremember them," he answered. "I hain't said none
since I was half the height o' that gun. I guess it's never too late.
You say them out, and I'll stand by and come in on the choruses."

"Then you'll need to kneel down, and me too," she said,
laying the shawl out for that purpose. "You've got to put your
hands up like this. It makes you feel kind of good."

It was a strange sight, had there been anything but the buzzards to see it. Side by side on the narrow shawl knelt the two
wanderers, the little prattling child and the reckless, hardened
adventurer. Her chubby face and his haggard, angular visage
were both turned up to the cloudless heaven in heartfelt entreaty
to that dread Being with whom they were face to face, while the
two voices — the one thin and clear, the other deep and harsh —
united in the entreaty for mercy and forgiveness. The prayer
finished, they resumed their seat in the shadow of the boulder
until the child fell asleep, nestling upon the broad breast of her
protector. He watched over her slumber for some time, but
Nature proved to be too strong for him. For three days and three
nights he had allowed himself neither rest nor repose. Slowly the
eyelids drooped over the tired eyes, and the head sunk lower and
lower upon the breast, until the man's grizzled beard was mixed
with the gold tresses of his companion, and both slept the same
deep and dreamless slumber.

Had the wanderer remained awake for another half-hour a
strange sight would have met his eyes. Far away on the extreme
verge of the alkali plain there rose up a little spray of dust, very
slight at first, and hardly to be distinguished from the mists of
the distance, but gradually growing higher and broader until it
formed a solid, well-defined cloud. This cloud continued to
increase in size until it became evident that it could only be
raised by a great multitude of moving creatures. In more fertile
spots the observer would have come to the conclusion that one of
those great herds of bisons which graze upon the prairie land was
approaching him. This was obviously impossible in these arid
wilds. As the whirl of dust drew nearer to the solitary bluff upon
which the two castaways were reposing, the canvas-covered tilts
of wagons and the figures of armed horsemen began to show up
through the haze, and the apparition revealed itself as being a
great caravan upon its journey for the West. But what a caravan!
When the head of it had reached the base of the mountains, the
rear was not yet visible on the horizon. Right across the enormous plain stretched the straggling array, wagons and carts, men
on horseback, and men on foot. Innumerable women who staggered along under burdens, and children who toddled beside the
wagons or peeped out from under the white coverings. This was
evidently no ordinary party of immigrants, but rather some nomad people who had been compelled from stress of circumstances to seek themselves a new country. There rose through the
clear air a confused clattering and rumbling from this great mass
of humanity, with the creaking of wheels and the neighing of
horses. Loud as it was, it was not sufficient to rouse the two
tired wayfarers above them.

At the head of the column there rode a score or more of grave,
iron-faced men, clad in sombre homespun garments and armed
with rifles. On reaching the base of the bluff they halted, and
held a short council among themselves.

"The wells are to the right, my brothers," said one, a hard-lipped, clean-shaven man with grizzly hair.

"To the right of the Sierra Blanco — so we shall reach the Rio
Grande," said another.

"Fear not for water," cried a third. "He who could draw it
from the rocks will not now abandon His own chosen people."

"Amen! amen!" responded the whole party.

They were about to resume their journey when one of the
youngest and keenest-eyed uttered an exclamation and pointed up
at the rugged crag above them. From its summit there fluttered a
little wisp of pink, showing up hard and bright against the gray
rocks behind. At the sight there was a general reining up of
horses and unslinging of guns, while fresh horsemen came galloping up to reinforce the vanguard. The word "Redskins" was
on every lip.

"There can't be any number of Injuns here," said the elderly
man who appeared to be in command. "We have passed the
Pawnees, and there are no other tribes until we cross the great
mountains."

"Shall I go forward and see, Brother Stangerson?" asked one
of the band.

"And I," "And I," cried a dozen voices.

"Leave your horses below and we will await you here," the
elder answered. In a moment the young fellows had dismounted,
fastened their horses, and were ascending the precipitous slope
which led up to the object which had excited their curiosity.
They advanced rapidly and noiselessly, with the confidence and
dexterity of practised scouts. The watchers from the plain below
could see them flit from rock to rock until their figures stood out
against the sky-line. The young man who had first given the
alarm was leading them. Suddenly his followers saw him throw
up his hands, as though overcome with astonishment, and on
joining him they were affected in the same way by the sight
which met their eyes.

On the little plateau which crowned the barren hill there stood
a single giant boulder, and against this boulder there lay a tall
man, long-bearded and hard-featured, but of an excessive thinness. His placid face and regular breathing showed that he was
fast asleep. Beside him lay a child, with her round white arms
encircling his brown sinewy neck, and her golden-haired head
resting upon the breast of his velveteen tunic. Her rosy lips were
parted, showing the regular line of snow-white teeth within, and
a playful smile played over her infantile features. Her plump
little white legs, terminating in white socks and neat shoes with
shining buckles, offered a strange contrast to the long shrivelled
members of her companion. On the ledge of rock above this
strange couple there stood three solemn buzzards, who, at the
sight of the newcomers, uttered raucous screams of disappointment and flapped sullenly away.

The cries of the foul birds awoke the two sleepers, who stared
about them in bewilderment. The man staggered to his feet and
looked down upon the plain which had been so desolate when
sleep had overtaken him, and which was now traversed by this
enormous body of men and of beasts. His face assumed an
expression of incredulity as he gazed, and he passed his bony
hand over his eyes. "This is what they call delirium, I guess "
he muttered. The child stood beside him, holding on to the skirt
of his coat, and said nothing, but looked all round her with the
wondering, questioning gaze of childhood.

The rescuing party were speedily able to convince the two
castaways that their appearance was no delusion. One of them
seized the little girl and hoisted her upon his shoulder, while two
others supported her gaunt companion, and assisted him towards
the wagons.

"My name is John Ferrier," the wanderer explained; "me and
that little un are all that's left o' twenty-one people. The rest is
all dead o' thirst and hunger away down in the south."

"Is she your child?" asked someone.

"I guess she is now," the other cried, defiantly; "she's
mine 'cause I saved her. No man will take her from me. She's
Lucy Ferrier from this day on. Who are you, though?" he continued, glancing with curiosity at his stalwart, sunburned rescuers; "there seems to be a powerful lot of ye."

"I never heard tell on him," said the wanderer. "He appears
to have chosen a fair crowd of ye."

"Do not jest at that which is sacred," said the other, sternly.
"We are of those who believe in those sacred writings, drawn in
Egyptian letters on plates of beaten gold, which were handed
unto the holy Joseph Smith at Palmyra. We have come from
Nauvoo, in the state of Illinois, where we had founded our
temple. We have come to seek a refuge from the violent man and
from the godless, even though it be the heart of the desert."

The name of Nauvoo evidently recalled recollections to John
Ferrier. "I see," he said; "you are the Mormons."

"We are the Mormons," answered his companions with one
voice.

"And where are you going?"

"We do not know. The hand of God is leading us under the
person of our Prophet. You must come before him. He shall say
what is to be done with you."

They had reached the base of the hill by this time, and were
surrounded by crowds of the pilgrims — pale-faced, meek-looking
women; strong, laughing children; and anxious, earnest-eyed
men. Many were the cries of astonishment and of commiseration
which arose from them when they perceived the youth of one of
the strangers and the destitution of the other. Their escort did not
halt, however, but pushed on, followed by a great crowd of
Mormons, until they reached a wagon, which was conspicuous
for its great size and for the gaudiness and smartness of its
appearance. Six horses were yoked to it, whereas the others were
furnished with two, or, at most, four apiece. Beside the driver
there sat a man who could not have been more than thirty years
of age, but whose massive head and resolute expression marked
him as a leader. He was reading a brown-backed volume, but as
the crowd approached he laid it aside, and listened attentively to
an account of the episode. Then he turned to the two castaways.

"If we take you with us," he said, in solemn words, "it can
only be as believers in our own creed. We shall have no wolves
in our fold. Better far that your bones should bleach in this
wilderness than that you should prove to be that little speck of
decay which in time corrupts the whole fruit. Will you come
with us on these terms?"

"Guess I'll come with you on any terms," said Ferrier, with
such emphasis that the grave Elders could not restrain a smile.
The leader alone retained his stern, impressive expression.

"Take him, Brother Stangerson," he said, "give him food
and drink, and the child likewise. Let it be your task also to
teach him our holy creed. We have delayed long enough. Forward! On, on to Zion!"

"On, on to Zion!" cried the crowd of Mormons, and the
words rippled down the long caravan, passing from mouth to
mouth until they died away in a dull murmur in the far distance.
With a cracking of whips and a creaking of wheels the great
wagons got into motion, and soon the whole caravan was winding along once more. The Elder to whose care the two waifs had
been committed led them to his wagon, where a meal was
already awaiting them.

"You shall remain here," he said. "In a few days you will
have recovered from your fatigues. In the meantime, remember
that now and forever you are of our religion. Brigham Young has
said it, and he has spoken with the voice of Joseph Smith, which
is the voice of God."